Phoenix Rising
by mykatabasis
Summary: Inspired by characters and themes from Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games and Malorie Blackman's Noughts & Crosses, this story interlinks narratives from two young people - Ash and Rose - as they find themselves on the wrong side of the law in a dystopian Manchester (a northern English city).
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**Ash**

**"Everyone's a kid that no-one cares about."**

They came in the middle of the night. They always do.

Ash was asleep, a loose kind of sleep, kicking against the sheets and the mosquito net hanging above his bed. The heat woke him from time to time, but he soon drifted off again. He was dreaming of a girl's face. She was smiling at him, waving at him. She walked towards him slowly. He was frozen to the spot, waving back at her. Her round, dark brown eyes seemed to seek him out; she quickened her pace, and took big bouncing strides towards him, a little unintentional wobble in her hips that made his lips quiver. She looked self-assured, calm and fresh as a spring day. But when he looked closer he could see there was something else. Something sad about the way her shoulders drooped. Something guarded in the way her jaw was clenched. Ash could almost see her back teeth grinding.

She came closer and closer. He felt his blood start to pump harder and faster. His guts twisted and knotted. He held out his arms, ready to greet her. But she slid past, her shoulder brushing callously against his, without even glancing at him. She ran straight into the arms of another boy. She punched the other boy's arm playfully, her long arching eyebrows rising in pleasure at a private joke shared. Her gentle round face suddenly lost its sadness and lit up with a grin, the corners of her mouth curling slightly downwards even as she smiled. She looked Ash's way for just a second. But she looked right through him. He turned and sighed.

There was a smell caught up in the dream, the smell of fried potatoes. It could have been part of the dream, or just a lingering smell left over from tea.

It's better to eat very little and eat well. That's what his father had always said. He didn't believe in powdered foods. So every week they bought a sack of potatoes or a sack of rice and spent the leftovers on fresh herbs. Ash sometimes idly fingered the hollows between his ribs and wondered if perhaps they wouldn't be better off with powdered food after all.

You could forage, at the outskirts of the city where patches of green still lined the canals, despite the painfully low water levels. There was food out there for those who knew what they were looking for. The plants had adapted much faster than the people to the rapidly rising temperatures. Chives and wild garlic grew huge and chunky and almost towered over Ash. Fat brambles and grinning sunflowers were good sources of food too.

You couldn't get caught. That was the catch.

Ash groaned and cradled his rumbling stomach. The girl was still there, standing with her back to him. He walked up to her and reached out to tap her on the shoulder. But his hand got stuck, froze midair.

Some nights this was where the dream ended. Every so often, when she turned to look at him, her expression changed. Lifted. A smile of recognition crossed her face as she stepped up to him, as she took his hand in hers, like they had always known each other. Then he would trail a finger down the side of her face, gently slide his hand round the back of her neck and into her hair. And then they would press into one another, their lips meeting at the last minute.

But it didn't end that way this time.

As she turned away from him, her body shook and fractured. Everything around her started to shake. She cried out for him as the ground split beneath her feet and swallowed her whole. Ash reached out for her, but it was too late. His ears were filled with a screaming noise. The walls around him started to crack and crumble. A cloud of dust billowed up, stinging his eyes.

And then the real world started to scream too. The picture Ash had put up in his mind was ripped away as a crash woke him, a crash so loud it shook the house.

For a second, nothing happened. Lying bolt upright in his bed, Ash felt the blood drain from his face. For the first time he understood where the expression came from. It felt like all the life was simply pouring out of him, his stomach a swirling, gurgling drain.

He could almost taste the stillness of the second between the crash and the scream. A baby's scream

He leapt out of bed, tearing the sheets and net away from him. His older brother was already up, sat bolt upright on the bed between Ash and the door. They looked at one another. They knew the baby's scream. And they knew it hadn't come from another house, another street. They knew that scream belonged to their nephew downstairs.

Voices snaked their way through the house, high, low, gruff, shrill, a mixture. The baby's wail could be heard loud and clear above them all. A sudden animal shriek tore through.

_Annie_, Ash thought, his heart pounding. He gripped the edge of the bed, frozen with terror. He could feel the wood splintering under the pressure of his grip. But Sonny seemed to know just what to do.

"Get under the bed brother," he whispered, standing and pulling on his baggy linen trousers.

Ash nodded mutely. _But what about Jay_, he thought. _What about Annie. What about the baby. _He opened his mouth to speak but no sound came out.

"Do it now," Sonny said as he pulled the door back just a little. Ash saw the light from the hall fall softly on his brother's face, creating a brief flicker of dancing shadow. He crouched down, stubby nails still digging into the bed frame, feeling the pressure in his shoulder joints as his arms bent back. He became aware of his heart again, pounding and thrashing against his ribs like an angry prisoner. His feet seemed planted to the floor.

_Get under the bed_, he repeated to himself.

Then another huge crash, closer to him this time. It took Ash a moment to realise what had happened, to connect the noise with the twitching figure of his brother, thrown back from the door and smashed against the back wall. He replayed it in his mind later, the sudden jump, the almighty crack of electricity. But now there was no time to let it sink in, just a sudden scoop, giant thumbs digging in to his armpits, the gasping pain, a blow to the chest, one to the jaw. The howling, that started far away, then got closer and closer until Ash realized that it came from his body. He had never heard anything like it.

In a blur his mother's face swam before him, baby Jaz's screams getting further and further away. Then the sudden shock of bare feet on dry, crisp grass. The shockingly warm hit of the night air. A huge spotlight. The whopping thud thud thud of a helicopter overhead.

And then nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**Rose**

**"It's not over yet."**

Rose wriggled her toes against the soft cotton sheets. A sliver of sun was peeking through the gap in the curtains, leaving one warm ray across her ankles. She yawned and stretched out her legs before turning away from the window and pulling the sheets over her head.

"Time to get up, sleepyhead," she heard a low, gentle voice say from just outside the door.

"Five minutes, ok?" Rose croaked in reply.

"I'll pop the kettle on, shall I love?" the voice continued. It was her mother, Grace.

Rose groaned and reached out to grab her phone from the bedside table. No messages. That was strange. Unexpected. Usually by now, Jem had been in touch.

She sat up for a moment and scanned the screen. The signal looked to be strong. But that might not mean anything. Maybe there had been a problem with messages getting through. There had to be a logical explanation anyway. Phones weren't safe, of course. But they were a way of saying hello, of letting someone know you were ok. That you were still here.

Putting the phone down, Rose sighed and reluctantly threw back the sheets. She hated sleeping under sheets, the way they tangled and wrapped around her legs in the night. It made her feel trapped. She hadn't slept under a duvet since she was a little girl, but she remembered the snug cosiness of it, the safeness. Of course, it was always far too hot for that now.

Grace appeared at the door carrying two giant, steaming mugs of coffee. The scent wafted in and made Rose smile.

"Room for one more?" her mother asked with her usual crooked grin.

Rose shuffled over towards the far side of the bed. It was a single bed, but Grace perched just on the edge, and passed Rose her coffee. She took it in both hands, letting the heat of the mug burn her palms just a little, then brought it to her lips and slurped loudly. The powdered milk hung around the rim of the mug in clumps, but real coffee was a rare treat, acquired (Rose had no idea how) by their neighbour Caroline.

Rose's room was spare and light, catching the morning sun here and there. The cream paint peeled slightly in the corners. Above the bed was one of Grace's old pieces, a giant tapestry of turquoise and silver threads. It was the sea. It was the only piece they had left.

This was an old morning ritual, sharing a brew in bed before starting the day, although when Rose was smaller they could both lie in bed together, cradled in each other's arms and sharing one mug.

Now Grace seemed almost uneasy. She fidgeted like a nervous fluttering bird, taking little sips of her coffee and letting her eyes dart around the room. Rose observed her, envious of her smooth clear skin and enormous brown eyes. Her mother was beautiful. But every so often, when she though no-one was looking, a flicker of worry would cross her face, causing her to purse her lips ever so slightly, and her face took on an expression of solving a deep, complex problem. It was easy to imagine her face lit up by the faint glow of a computer, her fingers moving furiously over the keys. But those days were over, and only the worry remained. Rose knew that Grace's teeth would be gritted together when this happened. Sometimes going to the bathroom or kitchen late at night, she would hear Grace grinding her teeth in her sleep, through the open door of her room.

"Time to get ready," she smiled, getting up and taking Rose's mug. Rose watched as her mother shuffled out of the room.

Rose checked her phone again and sighed. She rubbed her eyes and slowly eased out of bed. Her room was at one end of the flat, and opened out into a corridor. From this corridor, all parts of the flat could be reached. Still sleepy, she stumbled past the lounge on her right, and her mother's room on her left. The lounge opened out into the kitchen behind, which shared a wall and its plumbing with the bathroom. The flat was at the top of a tall building that overlooked the city. It had once been a hotel, when times were good and people had wanted to come here.

The bathroom door was directly opposite Rose's at the other end of the corridor. She went in and clambered into the bathtub. The shower was an old-fashioned hose type thing that had to be attached to the taps. Rose crouched down and held it above her head. A slow dribble of water ran down her back.

After a few minutes of being dribbled on, Rose stepped out with a towel around her. She shook her head to loosen the drips from her hair, which was short and clung together in tight curls. She skipped back down the corridor and got dressed quickly. Still no messages on her phone. What was going on?

"Rose," a voice called out, Caroline's this time. "Come get yourself some breakfast chick."

Caroline lived next door, but for as long as Rose could remember, the three of them had eaten breakfast together in the morning and tea together at night. Sometimes she found Grace and Caroline asleep on the sofa with the television still on. Then it was up to her to make sure they both woke up and Caroline returned home. People might get ideas. Even in unregistered housing there were always people who talked. And then the Wardens would surely find out. And the fewer questions were asked, the better, as far as Rose was concerned.

"Just a second," Rose shouted back. She pulled back the curtains and looked out over the city. She could see all the sights from here, the cathedral, the shopping centre, the prison. Her building even overlooked a river that split the city into two cities. The river had once been deep and green, but now, especially at this time of year, all Rose could see was a brown trickle of sludge. She grabbed her binoculars from the top of her wardrobe and gazed downstream as far as she could. A few brown leaves caught her eye as they danced along on the breeze. Then, out of habit, she started scanning the windows of the tall steel and glass buildings opposite, all shops. The binoculars had been her father's. But she hadn't seen him since she was twelve years old. Five years ago.

There wasn't much to see this morning. The sun cast deep rays of orange and pink which shimmered on the windows. She watched people for a while, scuttling over the bridge and going about their lives. A thin stream of people seemed to be crossing the green and entering the train station. It would get busier soon enough. Rose could just about make out the clock tower that leaned over the station entrance. Quarter to seven. She still had a little time.

She let the binoculars hang around her neck a moment, then took one last look. She scanned the shop windows one last time. Everyone going about their business. It made her feel safe. She watched a man pinning a shirt to a mannequin, a young girl running past the window at street level, her backpack jogging along with her. Rose lifted her head and started surveying the highest level of windows. And then she saw.

A man looking back at her. With a pair of binoculars.

She gasped and took a step back.

"Rose?" Caroline shouted again. Her voice sounded faraway, like she was under water.

Rose shrank back behind the curtains. Hands shaking, she pulled the curtains shut. Her stomach contracted like there was something inside biting hard. She stood for a minute, feeling her breath push against her lungs and her heart jumping about on a spring.

Once her breathing had started to calm down, she let the curtains fall so the tiny sliver reappeared. Trembling, she picked up her binoculars and clutched them tightly. She held them so tight that she could feel the pressure on her eyes. She scanned around, quickly, darting back and forth. The man had gone.

"Rose?"

"Yep," she called back, feeling her voice crack a little. She kept looking. She knew she hadn't imagined it. But the man was nowhere to be seen.

Pursing her lips, Rose put the binoculars back on the wardrobe. She put her hands on her face and rubbed. It was an old gesture. Someone told her when she was small that it was possible to rub off her freckles. She rubbed until it started to hurt. It must have been a mistake, right? No-one would ever think to spy on her. That was the point.

Rose pulled her phone out of her trouser pockets. Still no messages.

Best not to think about it just yet. Get some food, get some air, and you'll figure it out, she told herself. After all, wasn't she known for being cool in a crisis?

She headed to the kitchen. Caroline was sat at the counter gulping down some kind of purple juice and scraping burnt bits off her toast. Grace sat opposite, quietly sipping at another coffee and taking tiny bites of a potato waffle.

"Can't afford to waste your mum's bread, can I?" she said with a grin on seeing Rose. Rose nodded back, trying to look normal. She put her hands behind her back and gripped her wrists, twisting anxiously.

"Anyway, I've got to go, but I've left everything out for you, ready," Caroline said in her light, calm tone. She had a shock of straight red hair pulled back from her face, a generous figure and paler than pale skin, the complete opposite of Grace, who sat watching her with her wavy black curls dancing around her collarbones. She presented her cheek for Caroline to kiss as she made her way out through the lounge to the front door.

"Byeee!" she almost sang as she pulled the door to behind her.

"Mum?"asked Rose once she was sure it was just the two of them.

"Yes love?" Grace offered absentmindedly as she wandered towards the sofa.

Rose put a waffle in the toaster and leaned against the counter. Taking a deep breath she asked, "Have you noticed anything strange happening in town? Or around the building?"

Grace's eyes grew wide. She hated questions like this and Rose knew it. But there was a chance she might have noticed something, and Rose couldn't afford to miss that chance.

"No," she finally replied in a whisper.

"No?"

"No," Grace repeated, seemingly to herself this time. She sank into the sofa and felt around for the remote control. The television flickered into life.

"...and one suspect is being held," the presenter onscreen reported cheerfully. "Now for the weather."

"Never mind Mum. It's nothing. I'm just being silly, really."

The waffle popped up out of the toaster and landed on the counter. Rose tore off some kitchen roll to wrap it in and headed for the door.

She stopped in her tracks halfway there. What if the man from the window had worked out which flat she was in? What if he were waiting outside? She stopped and thought it through. Caroline would have made a noise, given some kind of warning, if anyone strange had been lurking about. She would have called. Rose checked her phone again. Still nothing. Well, no news is good news, right? Her stomach started to churn.

"I'm not feeling great actually," she said. "Can I come with you today?"

Grace smiled. "I've got a lot on today," she told Rose in her usual soft tone. "You look alright to me. Why don't you try going in? If you still feel bad you can always come home."

"I could stay here?" Rose offered.

"You'll get bored chick. I know what you're like. What will you do with yourself all day."

"I could save the world."

Grace gave her crooked grin. "That would be nice. But how about going to college first?"

Rose thought about it. She couldn't tell Grace what was wrong. And at the same time, she would only scare herself stupid cooped up inside all day.

"Fine," she said. "Hope everything goes well today."

She bent down to kiss her mother on the cheek, then headed for the door.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Ash**

"Do you know where you are?"

_Do you know where you are?_

"Do you know why you're here?"

_Do you know why you're here?_

"Are you ready to talk?"

_Are you ready to talk?_

_Well, are you?_

The voices sounded far away, dreamlike. They came from some far corner of this bright room, strip lights hot and penetrating, walls a shiny flawless white. Ash lifted his head, slowly, feeling like his face would burst. He could barely see and was overwhelmed with heat and heaviness. The room was dry; the air stale and musty. It felt like no whisper of fresh air had ever entered. His eyes felt swollen. It was a strange sensation; he felt as though his face had been filled with gel packs, some kind of poison that would split and kill him instantly if he so much as twitched. The slightest brush of his hair against his skin felt like a razor blade. It fell uneasily all over his face, as usual. There was an unsettling tension, like a stench in the room, and Ash suddenly realised the voices were asking him questions. He peeled apart his velcro lips but couldn't muster up more than a croak.

"We'll come back at a time that's more convenient for you, shall we?" one of the voices growled in his ear. He heard them move out, two or three of them, the unbearable screech of metal chairs dragging across the floor as they stood. The door slammed, making him wince, and the lights went out. Ash tried to look around but the room had been plunged into an unbreakable darkness. He tried to make sense of his body but without his sight he could only feel his head, hoping the rest was still there. He became very aware of the different parts of his head, the little pointy bones behind his ears which ached now like they did anytime he was stressed, his forehead throbbing, throat like sandpaper, tongue seeming to fill his entire mouth, threatening to choke him. Ash's eyeballs, too, felt like they were expanding and would pop against his cheekbones any second now.

"Sonny," he mumbled, barely moving his lips. "Where are we, Sonny? Where's the baby?"

He thought he saw the girl from his dream, but she was only drifting in and out of his mind, swaying and shimmering. She smiled and walked straight past him. She smiled and took him in her arms.

People, the voices, came and went, flooding the room with light and just as cruelly snatching it away. Their questions were always the same- "Do you realise who we are?", "Do you know why you are here?" Slowly, Ash began to recover physical sensations, though it could have been minutes, hours, days. He could feel a clammy, scratchy feeling around his lap and legs, a damp rash, and realised in shame that he had wet himself. He seemed glued to a cold, metal chair. It was only then, as he moved to rearrange his clothes and ease the damp itching sensation in his lap, that he felt his hands were tied behind the chair. In utter disbelief he tried to prise them apart, though the thin, pinching wire binding them began to pierce his skin.

Suddenly he came rushing back to life. Thrashing about, he screamed. The voices stormed into the room but as they moved to restrain him he swerved and swung at them with the jagged chair legs, the chair still attached to his body. He managed to batter a couple of them in this way, sending them crashing to the floor, sliding across the room. But there were too many this time, coming from all directions, a stealth attack. One sharp blow to the back of Ash's neck was enough to see him slump in his chair, wounded and exhausted.

And then there was nothing.

Until in fuzzy spots of light, zooming into his eyes and boring into the back of his skull, then suddenly panning out and pulling him out of himself, he started to hear someone talking to him.

_Where did that come from? _Said the voice. _That's not like you._

And some small part of Ash realised that his mother was not in the room with him, that she couldn't be talking to him, that it was impossible. But another part of him heard her as loud and clear as if she were standing over the chair trimming his hair. Her hair hung long with loose curls. It tickled his face as she leant over him, but tickled in a good way, unlike the scratchy sensation of the tiny cut hairs falling down the back of his shirt.

He wasn't trapped at all. He was just in the kitchen, having his hair cut. It had all been a bad dream. He could hear his mother humming to herself as she pulled at the hair that was getting in his eyes and snipped it in small chopping motions that sounded to him like the sound of crunching on a carrot. Every so often she would stop to examine him, and would then examine herself as well, finding a hanging thread on her baggy old cardigan. She would snip that too, and then she would place the offending strand of wool in a jar on the windowsill. The jar was full of wriggling threads of purple and orange and silver and plain old brown, ready to retwist and reweave back into the cardigan when the holes grew too severe.

She kept the hair too. That was the really odd thing, the thing that made his father wrinkle his nose. Ever since Ash could remember, the two of them had the same conversation every time one of the boys had a haircut from his mother.

_Why are you keeping this old hair?_

_It's useful. What do you think keeps you warm on a winter night?_

_I was hoping wool and cotton._

_Well mainly those things. But how do you think we've kept hold of the same bedding year after year, without it ever thinning out or losing its shape? Hmmm? Do you think these things happen by magic?_

_No of course not. But I'm certain there are less disgusting methods we could try._

That's not like you, the voice told Ash again, to lash out like that. How far will that get you? React with intelligence, not with instinct. Stop. Stop and think. What's your next move? What's the move after that? And after that?

Ash didn't know what the next move was.

What had they been doing with their hair? All these years without their mother. Who had been replenishing the bedding? Ash struggled to answer this, felt somehow that this memory was just beyond his reach.

He felt his eyes start to ache with the pressure of the big throbbing splodges of red that seemed to be bursting all over the blank white wall in front of him. He drifted in and out of darkness. At times he couldn't tell if he was awake or asleep, whether the flickering in his eyes came from the outside or the inside. He felt his head roll backwards and forwards, like it was held in place by nothing more than old strands of wool.

When he came to, he was in the darkness once more. He tried to stand but soon realised that his chair had been secured to the floor, bolted perhaps, and would not allow him to so much as shuffle. His chest suddenly tightened. He called out for his mother, but there was no reply, no reassuring voice, not even inside his head. Where was he? He knew he had been in his own bed. He had been sleeping, dreaming, tossing and turning in the heat of the night air. He had been thinking of the girl from school, the one he always thought about. And then what?

Into his mind came his brother's face, telling him to hide, to get out. The sound of the baby screaming. The stomping intrusion of heavy boots on the stairs.

Ash was smothered in panic, could barely breathe because of it. He tried to calm himself down, to ease his confusion and as he did so, he found his voice. Although there was no-one in the room, he tested it out, speaking clearly.

"I don't remember anything," he said, "I don't know why I'm here." People invaded the room once more, the lights came on and Ash repeated himself over and over, rocking back and forth, eyes glazed over.

"I don't know, I don't remember, I don't know."

The same fierce growls as before filled his ears.

They roared like huge thrusting pinions.

Something told him to stay calm. This is only the beginning. This – the lights, the noise – is all just to disorient you, to try and break you down. What's their next move? The shock and awe approach isn't working. You're showing them that you're no good to them like this.

So what's next?

When the roaring stopped, Ash found he was in total darkness. And silence too. His ears were ringing. His eyes stung and watered. He tried to imagine what his battered face would look like, but in every image he could conjure up of himself, his eyes were dripping blood.

A low hum filled the room, followed by what felt like a breeze. Ash couldn't place it, couldn't reconcile this light tripping breeze with the blank white walls and the screaming and the flickering strip lights.

There was someone speaking to him. Outside his head this time. A woman.

He strained to hear what she was saying. But the humming noise grew louder and louder and louder until it made his body rattle against the hard metal chair. His jaw hung open. The breeze became a violent swirling wind that forced his eyes closed and pulled his clothes tight around his neck and waist.

The humming built and built until it felt like the only noise anyone had ever heard, until it shook even the bolts beneath his feet.

It came to a sudden end.

But there was a sound that stayed behind, a sound like water hitting a bright blue flame.

It was the only sound left in the room. The woman had stopped speaking.

Ash realised that the sound was coming from him.

And then he was gone again.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Rose**

"Who's missing?" Rose asked, digging her nails into her palms and gritting her teeth. "Who is it?" she demanded, her voice growing louder.

This day had gone from bad to worse, she thought. First the man in the window, then the woman on the street... something was going on, something even worse than usual, and it made Rose feel uneasy.

She had been on her way to college, shuffling along the dirty, dusty streets, looking carefully at the glass windows of the shops and offices, making sure no-one was following her. She watched the shimmering reflections of people rippling through, but no sign of the suited man in the window. Though there were plenty of people making their way to work every morning, not that many young people lived in the city centre. Most of the people who went to her school lived in registered communities on the other side of town. In her situation, the positives outweighed the negatives, Rose had always thought, but it made her easy to spot at these routine times of day. Inwardly Rose cursed, knowing that she had made herself easy to track. She had just thought they would never identify her, would never match up her two identities. But if they had, well, then she was in real trouble. She took a deep breath, then quickened her pace as fast as she dared.

Halfway through, on her way out of the city centre at the other end, she had heard the wailing. It seemed to ring out from high above her, like the old peal of church bells that no longer sounded. Rose looked around but no-one else seemed to have noticed. They shuffled along, heads down, a low murmur of phone conversations the only sound they made. Rose followed the sound of cries and shrieks down an empty side street. She ducked into a doorway and looked up cautiously. There was a small hollow inside a giant steel post to the right side of the doorway, a safe spot on this clean deserted street. The building behind her was all steel and blood-red brick, with boarded up windows, but further along there was only glass. It was impossible in this light to see inside any of the buildings. The sky mirrored itself, a great streak of rust pinging off at all angles. Maybe that was the point, Rose thought, not for the first time. The wailing started up again, a long cry of anguish that sent shivers down her spine. And then the unmistakeable sound of fists pounding against glass.

As Rose peeked out from her doorway, she finally saw her. The woman, many times reflected and magnified on the sleek office walls, screamed and smashed her forearms against a glass door. She rocked and sobbed, so that her head looked like it was held on by a thread. Her pale stringy hair came down over her shoulders and shook with fluttering rage as she hurled herself against the glass. Rose could just make out a silvery-suited figure, standing solid and impassive on the other side of the door, centimetres away from the screaming woman.

"Where is he?" she howled. "What have you done with him?"

Rose winced. She knew this was going to end badly, that the best thing she could do would be to creep away and rejoin the busy main walkway. But she found herself rooted to the spot, unable and unwilling to move. Someone should see, should witness, record what would inevitably happen next.

Sure enough, Rose saw the man behind the glass lift a finger to his ear. It was done in a small, subtle way, as if he were adjusting his hair. His lips seemed to barely move as he spoke into his earpiece. Rose instinctively shrunk back. She could at least make a run for it. Though she knew she wouldn't get far if it came to that. Rose bit down hard on her lip. She could get as far as the walkway. She could make a scene, force others to see, if it came to it.

The woman carried on wailing and thrashing, even as she sunk to her knees. She smashed her fists into the concrete and pulled at her hair. Rose made herself look and took in every detail. The woman's bloodied knuckles and tight fists, like meaty stumps hanging off the end of her long freckled arms. The orange and green scarves wrapped around her forehead, and her long strings of blonde hair now hanging limply around her neck. The simple white cotton dress that came down to the ankles, torn around the hems. No shoes, just socks, grey and grubby. On her right wrist there was a bracelet, a thin band glinting in the sun.

Suddenly a crack appeared in the building. The man with the earpiece appeared, sliding out from behind the glass with a surprising grace for someone of his size. He scooped the woman up in his arms with a swift movement that almost looked gentle, tender even. She froze in his arms. Rose could see her face reflected in the glass, her mouth held agape yet silent, as if someone had pressed pause. The woman dug her nails into the Warden's shoulders and continued staring blankly ahead. Rose stared at her mirror image, mentally recording her expression of fear and fury. But then her face changed, eyes widening, suddenly alert. _She can see me!_ Rose realised, staring back intently. The woman held her gaze in the glass for what seemed like a lifetime. Then, with a full, deliberate movement, she bit the Warden's ear. He let out a yelp, but didn't drop her, just held her even tighter. She kicked and struggled until he couldn't help but let her go. She turned towards Rose and started to run. _Don't let him see me_, Rose begged silently, her fists clenching, shoulders arcing back and tensing. The Warden launched himself after her, pulling at her ankles. She hit the concrete with a dull thud, her arms outstretched. He threw himself on top of her, grunting and growling. Rose watched in horror as he let his weight cause the most pain, pinning her down. She still stretched out towards Rose, her face taut with the effort of looking up.

In the corner of her eye, Rose saw it. A little glinting band of gold, rolling along the smooth concrete towards her. The woman's bracelet. It dropped with an almost imperceptible clink. Rose bit her cheek. She looked at the woman, forcing herself to meet her eyes, and gave a small nod. She slunk back as far as she could against the rough brick, safe in her abandoned hollow. She closed her eyes and pressed her palms against her ears to block out the blunt crack of the woman's skull smashing into the ground.

The clean up was quick and efficient. Rose settled in her hollow, feeling the rusted edges of the steel scratch at her arms while they did it. She could hear the swish of their suits, the long slurp of the hose. Rose watched silently as a trickle of water ran past her, a tear rolling down her cheek. From her hiding place, Rose could just see the main walkway. Everyone she saw walked in profile, trying to look purposeful. Not a single person looked down the street towards her. Rose held her breath as two figures strolled past her, muttering. One man, one woman, both in clean creamy linen. The grey suited man from behind the glass was nowhere to be seen.

Rose waited. She held herself tight in her arms and leant her head back as far as she could. She looked out and planned her exact movements, step by step. When at last it seemed safe, she took a deep breath in and out and made her move. She squeezed out of the gap in the steel, and with strong purposeful strides, she made her way towards the bracelet. She leant as if to tuck in her shoelace, and picked up the thin gold band the woman had left behind. Without missing a beat, she pulled it onto her wrist and kept walking. Tucked close against the red bricks, in the shadows, head down, Rose walked as fast as she dared. Her knees began to tremble as she got closer and closer to the main walkway. There were fewer people now, latecomers and stragglers, and still no-one glanced her way. She slipped onto the path, and darted in and out of other people's shadows.

Rose looked at her phone. No messages. But it was still only half eight. The only safe thing to do now was go to college. She couldn't let someone track her back to Grace. If she could make it to class on time, she could blend in, alongside the thousands of others, and they might just lose her.

By the time she arrived, breathless and pouring with sweat, only a few other students were still dawdling outside on the grass. She rushed past them, through the revolving doors and darted into the nearest stairwell. The main plaza was too open, too empty. She ran up the stairs and through the into the caretaker's storeroom. Tripping over mops and buckets, she clattered her way through the long, dark, echoing cave of a room as quickly as she could to, then crept out through the back exit down into a narrow corridor. Rose knew this building like the back of her hand. It made days like today easier. Through a thin strip of mesh along the left side of the corridor, Rose could see students filing into her room. She took out her keys and felt her way along the left wall until she felt the cold sharp metal of a lock under her fingers. This brought her out at the other end of the building, opposite the entrance. She peeked over the first floor balcony back along the plaza. No-one. Just a few of the other students, sharing a laugh and shoving one another. Rose let out a little sigh of relief, and strolled as casually as she could through the door of her classroom.

Once everyone was seated, along long rows of tables and benches, books open, ready to learn how to be a productive citizen, Rose did a mental head count. It was part of her morning routine. There had already been four students go missing this year. It was only October.

As she neared the end of her count, her friend Jem caught her eye and smiled. Rose smiled back weakly. Jem raised his eyebrows as if to ask what the matter was. Rose gave a tiny shake of her head and carried on counting. _Forty-one_, she said to herself. _Forty-two_. No wait, that wasn't right. There were forty-three of them. Maybe she had forgotten to count Jem when he looked at her. Or herself. Sometimes she would count them three or four times just to check. Rose went through the rows again. Forty-two. Someone was missing.

She couldn't figure out who it was. Not one of her friends. Rose wracked her brain, trying to put a face to the empty space where a student should be. The lecturer stood at the front of the room and droned on and on, distracting her from her thoughts.

After two hours, her legs numb from sitting still and her shoulders tensed up, Rose headed out onto the back lawn. Jem was ahead of her but didn't look back. They had to move in an orderly fashion inside the building. It wasn't worth causing trouble, or drawing attention to close friendships. Those who did often found it used against them later on.

"Who's missing?" she demanded when she and Jem were finally face to face, huddled close to the columns that flanked the edge of the building. He sat down on the grass and leant into a column's shadow.

"Keep your voice down," he muttered, his brow furrowed and his hard blue eyes glaring at her. She sat next to him and noticed that the sun-bleached hairs on his arms were standing on end, despite the oppressive heat.

He glanced at her and gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. "You really don't pay attention, do you?" he joked.

"You know I do," she said with an edge to her voice. "I'm just asking you if you know who is missing."

He looked away and sighed, the shadow cutting across his cheekbones. His face had grown more and more stubbly, which fascinated Rose. She looked at him, wanting to stroke his jaw. They weren't like that though. Just friends. But still, the temptation was there.

"You know that kid Ash?" he asked, almost mumbling the name.

"Oh," Rose said, almost relieved. "He must be sick or something."

"Or something. There was plenty of commotion on the estate last night."

"Maybe his brothers are in to something. I can't see Ash having problems."

"We'll see," Jem said, sounding unconvinced.

"Is that why you didn't message me?"

"I did," he said, looking surprised. "To say good morning," he added, looking sheepish.

Rose frowned. Maybe the signals had been blocked. She put it to the back of her mind and tried to bring Ash to the front. But when she closed her eyes, all she could see was the face of the woman, pinned to the concrete with the Warden smothering her.

She could usually figure it out straight away. Two boys had been taken who had been known to organise street fights. A girl who had smashed a school window. A boy who had spent his days sketching one of their lecturers. He had mistaken the older man's snarling contempt, had imagined it to be fear or confusion. But it wasn't. They had come for him publicly, calling him names as they dragged him from his chair. The lecturer had shuffled his papers and looked away.

Within minutes he had resumed his talk on the history of the registered communities.

"These were and are," he said, his voice flat and even, "the best way to repair our broken society. By removing the element of chance, communities can be carefully managed in order to promote social cohesion. As for those who remain outside this system…"

He leant against the wall directly in front of Rose as he said it, making it clear his comments were directed at her. She bit her tongue. The caricaturist's screams could still be heard reverberating around the open building.

"As for those who remain outside this system, they are placing themselves in grave danger, away from the protection offered to the registered sites. It is suspected that a great many of these individuals have criminal leanings. Why else would they set themselves apart from the rest of us?"

He returned to his desk and shuffled his papers again. The bunch of ripped cables sprouting from the floor by his feet showed where, until recently, there had been a single computer.

"It is my belief," he bellowed, waggling his finger in the air, "that unregistered housing is a stain on our otherwise orderly society. And judging by recent conversations I have had, I have every reason to believe that the outlaws who perpetuate this odious lifestyle will soon be brought under much tighter supervision."

Rose remembered this now as she thought about Ash.

She knew he lived in a community, maybe on the same estate as Jem.

She knew too that the promised tighter regulations on housing were imminent. Grace refused to even discuss it, would huddle up with a cushion in her arms, rocking gently back and forth, staring at the television. But they were going to have to face up to it eventually.

That didn't help her figure out anything about the missing boy though.

But maybe, just maybe, if something bad had happened, someone would have witnessed it. And perhaps that someone would be prone to 'criminal leanings', as their history lecturer liked to put it. And if that person had access to a secure computer…

"I'm going inside," she told Jem. "To do some research."

He raised his eyebrows. "Be careful," he whispered.

"Where does he live? Near you?"

Jem nodded. As she turned away from him Rose thought for a second she saw a frown flicker across his face. But it vanished as quickly as it had appeared and she walked on, leaving him brooding in the shade..

Once inside she made her way to the back stairs. She took calm, controlled strides.

When she reached the caretaker's office she paused for a second, to check that nobody was about. The eye in the sky was safely around a corner. Until someone invented a way for the college security cameras to see through walls, this was a blind spot. A safe spot.

She scuttled through the cupboard and out through to the other side. There was the narrow corridor that led off towards her classroom. But to the right there was a gap, no wider than a person's body, that she could sidle through.

Once through the gap, there was a short distance to go before she reached a thin metal sheet. This slid aside to reveal a tiny room, completely in the dark except for the soft blue glow of a computer screen.

The internet was one of the first places that had stopped being safe. But there were always ways in, if you knew how. Rose's mother and father had known. They had built the Witness system.

There were computers hidden everywhere, if you knew where to look. Once they were only confiscated when a serious crime had taken place. But the definition of serious had jutted forward so dramatically that soon, a negative word or two in a private communication, became grounds for confiscation.

Rose's father had described the path to this room to Rose when she had been small. He had been determined that she would know.

Grace had been quite something. She had been strong, assured, smart. Entirely capable of looking after herself and usually several other people as well. But that had all changed when she had lost Rose's father.

_Not lost._ Rose thought. _Lost was a callous word. It made it sound like clumsiness. Or carelessness._

_When he was taken._

Witness was the one safe place that Rose was sure of. It had one purpose, and one purpose only. People all over the world would post descriptions of people they'd loved, or complete strangers, anyone who had been taken.

Grace thought it was long over. But Rose had watched and learned, and along with Jem, monitored the entire network from the caretaker's cupboard. They had rebuilt it. It had taken them a long time – they were only kids when they had started. But they were good. And they had never been caught.

She read through some of the posts that had appeared today. 'They took my brother', 'my grandmother', 'a man who stole a pair of shoes', 'my daughter', 'my friend'. Nothing about Ash. Not yet. He must just be sick, Rose told herself.

Rose clicked through the pages, back to the very first post. The username was phoenix, Grace's old pseudonym. It was a way of reaching out to people, a way of letting them know that Rose was someone they could trust.

Rose knew the words without even looking:

'They took my father six months ago. He was a good man. He was tall and gentle. His mouth turned down a little when he smiled. He loved his work with computers. He loved dancing with my mother when no-one else was around. He didn't sleep very much. He used to come and stand at my bedroom door whenever he woke up in the night. To check that I was still breathing. I don't know what else to say about him. But I hope that someone is out there reading this. That we can start to witness again.'

This single paragraph, a condensed life, sat on the page with one other record.

'They took my twin sister.' That was how it began.

Jem's sister, Cherry. Rose had never met her. She had been taken when she was ten, before Jem's family had been relocated. People were always kept moving, unsettled. Evictions happened often. But there were also the more subtle methods. Shutting down a factory. Demolishing a high rise. All the ways that people could be made to scatter, they were scattered. Even the better off people were handled in the same way. Suddenly your company would move to a new city, or they would ask you to travel to a different country, offer you an apartment somewhere far away from your family. And that was not to mention the effect of the weather, uprooting whole communities, whole countries even. 'You can't grow into strong trees without roots' was what Grace used to say. Before. When she was still herself.

It had taken a long time for Rose to trust Jem. She remembered seeing him arrive on his first day at her school. He skulked about, hugging the walls of the corridors, sunken-eyed and sullen. Even before she knew his name, Rose could see that he was broken, missing half of himself. She thought she could understand all the ways that hurt.

Jem's father had been waiting for him at the gates. And not just that first day, every day until Jem told him to stop. He was a tall pale skinny man, with a mess of thinning hair and a haunted look. As Rose got to know him better, she found out that he barely spoke. And then only in a spindly whisper. He had spindly fingers too, that fixed things. Phones. Televisions. Computers even. He rarely looked Rose in the eye, but when he did she saw his eyes were a watery blue, pale and sick-looking. Not like Jem. His eyes were a dark, sparkling blue, like a clear night sky in winter. Not that there were many of those night skies anymore, just the yellowing fog and haze.

Rose looked up at the ceiling tiles and took a minute to compose herself in the low blue glow of the screen. This place was one of the few places she knew that was cool and calm. She took a deep breath and started to write.

'Today I saw a woman taken off the streets. She was calling out for someone, maybe her partner or her son. She wore a gold bracelet made of thin strands...'


End file.
